


Enlace: la pareja de mi alma

by aohatsu



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Bonding, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a law, in the United States that allows the government to take any citizen they like and assign them a new home, a new job, a new partner—a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enlace: la pareja de mi alma

There's a law, in the United States that allows the government to take any citizen they like and assign them a new home, a new job, a new partner—a new life.  
  
It's the scariest thing that's ever happened to him when he climbs down the stairs on the second day of the new year, expecting a smile from his Mom and a  _buena mañana, David_  and maybe pancakes, if he’s lucky. The second step up from the floor creaks when he puts his weight on it, and the voices in the living room all hush and quiet until he walks in, barefoot and dressed in his pajama's, his hair still messy from how he had tossed around the night before, an ache in his lower chest that’s been getting steadily worse for the better part of two months now keeping him up. His parents are sitting on the sofa—the pink one that his abuelita gave them when they got married, and nobody really ever sits on it because his Mom threatens to sell them to the circus if they so much as leave a dirty fingerprint on it, so that’s the first thing that he registers.  
  
There's a woman sitting in the blue armchair across from his parents, dressed in a black suit, except for the white button-down under the dark jacket. She's tiny, but with really pretty blond hair and kind of sad blue eyes. David says, "Hello," even though his parents aren't looking at him, and haven't introduced this woman in a suit, sitting uncomfortably in his living room at six o'clock in the morning.  
  
"Hello, David. It's nice to finally meet you," she says, looking up at him, smiling just a little.  
  
David's dad tightens his shoulders, straightens in his seat, and harshly says, "Look at him! He's just a child!"  
  
David jumps, startled at the outburst, and before he can even comprehend what they're talking about, he lowers his eyes, hurt by the way his father bites out the word _child_. But his mother puts her hand on his father's shoulder, and says, quietly, "Jeff, it's not Mrs. White's decision."   
  
She’s crying, David realizes.  
  
"What's going on?" he asks, finally, shuffling his feet against the cold hardwood floor, and stepping closer to them so that's he's standing on the soft, white rug instead.  
  
Mrs. White smiles up at him, and she opens her mouth to speak, but David says, "Dad?" in a small voice, not really sure why he's suddenly scared, but he knows that he is, of this woman and her pressed suit and her sad, sad eyes.  
  
Jeff rips his eyes away from their visitor and looks at David instead, and David can't remember the last time he saw him so dejected and helpless. He thinks maybe it's because he never has. His father has always been a  _stand up tall, David, and they can't tell you no_  kind of man, and his mother always stands next to him, bright and supportive, and their family has never had to cry or be scared, not really. Even when Jazzy had disappeared at Lowe's that one time, they’d all been calm and had stayed together, looking everywhere they’d already been, and they'd found her attached to her art teacher fifteen minutes later, talking wildly about some cartoon. David's mother hadn't stopped holding her too tightly for what seemed like hours, but it had been fine, in the end—they were always fine, because his Mom and Dad were—they were never helpless. They always knew exactly what to do, what to say.  
  
"You turned seventeen six days ago, David," Mrs. White says, not realizing that she’s interrupting the thoughts spiraling through David’s head. "And so it's legal to take you now. I'm sure you've learned about the connectivity law in school, and a little about how it works." David can't do anything but nod, unwilling to turn now and look at his father, or his mother, who are both too quiet, because—because—there’s just—whatever he’d been thinking, this wasn’t even close. "Your name came in when you were sixteen. We've had to wait a few months now. It was also suggested—and agreed—that," and she pauses here, looking at him sadly, "we would give you a week before taking you, because you’re so young."  
  
 _Six days,_  David thinks.  _It’s been six days since my birthday._  
  
"Tomorrow morning, you'll need to come with me." She starts to smile again, "But for now, spend some time with your family. I'll explain your new living situation tomorrow after we board the plane."  
  
"I—" David starts, but can't finish. He doesn't know what to say, or what to ask, and there are thousands of thoughts swarming his mind, but he can't focus on any of them. He thinks crazily about his school, and what the other kids are going to say when they realize that he—that  _he is_ —and what about, about his family—his parents and grandparents and Claudia and Daniel and Amber and Jazzy—what about  _him_? What about—this can’t be  _happening_ — Suddenly he loses his balance and falls, landing solidly flat on his back, hearing a loud thud and crack where his head hits the floor. His father yells, "Dave!" and his mom and Mrs. White jump up from their respective seats and hurry over, hovering just above him.   
  
"David, are you alright?" His mom asks, touching his shoulder, and David doesn't know how he could possibly be alright, but he nods dazedly, and sits up. He has to—his father looks scared, and it’s— He’s not a child, but—he breathes.  
  
David looks up at the blond woman, and says, “I just—why me?”  
  
She looks back down at him and says, “We didn’t… pick you, David. You were selected—it’s out of your hands, or mine, or even the bureau’s hands, who gets chosen. It’s very important that you come as soon as possible. I’m sorry, I can’t say more than that right now.” It’s with a glance at his parents that she says the last sentence, and David understands that what she means is  _not in front of them_.  
  
He nods.  
  
  
  
So, yes, there’s a law made to ruin everything David has ever cared about.  
  
After Mrs. White leaves— _Call me Brooke, David,_  she had said, a soft smile on her face as she stepped out of the front door, half an hour and too many signed documents and too much new information for David to process later and he couldn't bring himself to call her anything other than Mrs. White—David's mom drags him into the kitchen to help her make pancakes while Jeff goes upstairs to wake up David's little sisters and brother, and quietly explain that today was the last day they’ll ever see their big brother.  
  
It’s not like—it isn't a law used lightly, David thinks, as he pulls dishes out from the cupboard and places them on the table in the kitchen. It's rare, used maybe a dozen times a year, throughout the entire country. And it isn’t just any citizen, either, really, because the government doesn’t get to pick and choose the people themselves. David can’t help but blame them right now, though, and he is staring sadly at the plates in his hands, thinking about it. He knows that the ones chosen are chosen by, like, this machine—and well, David doesn't know exactly how that works, except that it picks who becomes  _bonded_ , and that it is always, always, two people at a time. And he knows that somehow, the machine finds people who are meant to be with each other, like—like soul mates, and that's why it’s always two people. And David doesn't know how that works either, because how does a  _machine_  know if two people thousands of miles away from one another, who have never even met, will fall in love when they're pulled away from their lives and are thrown at each other instead. To him, it just sounds like they’d hate each other.  
  
It just sounds like he’ll hate whoever else found out this morning that their life was turning topsy-turvy.  
  
Half of his high school, he knows, just think it's just one of those things some people have to deal with—like having red hair, or something. The other half (the female half, David thinks meanly) seem to go to sleep dreaming about the day they’ll wake up to find someone standing at their front door, telling them to pack up, their soul mate is awaiting them in some faraway place like Tokyo or London or Venice. (Like they think it's a fairytale, which, yeah, David can see the connection, but  _still_ , you're pretty much being kidnapped and  **no** , it's really not a fairytale romance at all.)  
  
But the thing is, high school students are never picked by the machine anyway. Occasionally college students have been, but David thinks the youngest ever chosen was twenty-three or something. Those who get bonded aren't chosen until after they've gone through school and figured out—figured out who they are and what they're going to do in the future, whether it’s building things or saving people in Africa or selling tea. David thinks—thought—that they’re supposed to be chosen by their skills; their accomplishments, because the pairs you hear about—the people who  _bond_  and become a couple, a pair—are always, always, incredibly good at whatever it is that they do.  
  
David is only seventeen, right now. He's five months into his junior year of high school, and even though he likes singing and playing the piano whenever he gets the chance, he doesn't have time to join band or choir because of this summer job at the nearby movie theatre that had asked him to stay on during the winter too, and he's saving money for college, where he thinks he's probably going to go into accounting, because he's pretty good with numbers. He’s not talented at anything—he doesn’t have any skills or accomplishments, so it—it doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t understand why—or even how—this happened to  _him_.  
  
Why did  _he_  get picked, out of all the people out there? It’s—he doesn’t even fulfill the  _basic_  requirements. It’s not—it’s not fair, and oh, the tight, tugging sensation in his chest is pushing, all hot and painful, and it’s worse now, probably because of the stress.  
  
He knows it isn’t right to hate, but he can’t help it. He  _hates_  this.  
  
"Maybe not," David mumbles to himself, a few minutes later, as he cracks an egg into a large bowl because his mom hadn't been able to crack the first two without the shell landing inside, completely crumbled, or on the tiled floor, useless. She’s not concentrating. But then, David doesn’t really care if the pancakes have shells in them or not at this point. He doesn’t blame her if she doesn’t either. He’s thinking about how this is the last day he’ll spend with his family—if not ever, then at least for a very long time.  
  
"¿Qué, mijo?"   
  
"Nothing," David says, at first, before looking up at his mom and shaking his head, mixing the batter easily. "I'll see you again, won't I? It's not like I'm leaving forever, or—"  
  
"Of course not, mijo, no, you can always come home!" His mom drops the whisk in her hand so that it clatters on the floor, and pulls David into her arms, hugging him too tightly, but David just hangs on, and he holds his breath so that he won't cry, his chest hurting more than ever.  
  
"Prométame," she says softly, against the top of his head.   
  
David nods into her shoulder, and wishes that he didn’t have to leave at all.  
  
They go out after breakfast, all of them, and David tries to memorize every time Daniel laughs, and every smile Amber and Jazzy let out, and lets Claudia brush his hair even though he usually refuses, and he knows, he  _knows_ , that he’ll never forget the way his mother grips his hand tight as she drags him around the mall, or how his father’s hand feels, heavy on his shoulder.   
  
  
  
The seats are really big, with the arms that you can push back and these big tables that don't take up all the space, and there's a really comfortable and warm blanket that they gave him, plus a little TV right in front of him with like twenty different movies that he could watch if he wanted, and a radio is connected to it too, and the stewardess has offered him everything from ice cream to pizza and coke on the rocks (which Brooke—and he's finally started to call her that, after she looked at him all sad that morning—had to explain that that meant with ice, not actual rocks, because David just hadn't got it at first), but David still isn't happy. He's leaning up against the inside of the plane, staring out of the small window, even though Murray, Utah is long gone from below them, and all he can see is the white of the clouds that they're flying through.   
  
Brooke puts a hand on his shoulder, and he looks at her, a little sheepish because he hadn’t been paying attention to whatever she was talking about already, and he tries to give her a little smile, but it doesn't really come. She smiles sadly back at him and sits down in the seat next to him. "I’m sorry, but I need to explain some things to you.”  
  
David nods, and turns, and tries to pay attention. It’s kind of like science class, except in how science class had never started off with the words, “Do you believe in soul mates?” which is how Brooke begins the explanation of what exactly the bonding process actually is. (She doesn’t seem to care that David’s answer was no.) She talks in this weird metaphor, about how a person’s soul is like a string that winds itself around them, protecting and supporting them throughout their entire lives, providing them with strength, and with the capabilities to handle all of the emotion that a person collects throughout their lives.  
  
David kind of stops paying attention at moments, because it all sounds like some sort of silly bedtime story, and Brooke pokes him twice before she finally says, “But in your case, none of that can happen.”  
  
“Why?” he says, after she starts talking about the government bureau that she works for, how they’ve been studying the science of—of the  _soul_ —for years. It’s when she says, teasingly, “What, you can believe in connectivity—in bonding—but won’t bother asking how it’s possible?” that David begins to pay more attention.  
  
“Because before you were born, your soul was ripped in half somehow,” Brooke says, seriously, in response to his question.  
  
And that gets David to pay attention. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“No one knows how it happens, but occasionally, a soul will rip itself in half. It’s where the string analogy came from. Now, a soul, complete or just half, will always wrap around an infant if they’re suitable—if a soul doesn’t attach, the infant doesn’t survive. It usually happens at birth. But see, what happened with you is that only part of your soul wrapped itself around you. The other half—the first half—had already surrounded someone else. One soul, two bodies. Soul mates, David. That’s what that means.”  
  
“But—I—I’m not  _half_  a person, or—“  
  
“No, no, of course not. You’re you, all you. But when a soul is ripped in half, it hurts. You won’t notice for a really long time because it takes years for your emotions to build and get heavy enough that your soul realizes it’s only half of what it’s supposed to be. And when it realizes that, it starts instinctively looking for its other half. It sends out signals—frequencies—that the connectivity machine picks up on. It’s programmed to find the identical frequency. Everyone on the planet has a unique frequency—except for people who share a soul, David.  
  
Do you understand why you’ve been selected now?”  
  
David thinks  _No_ , but nods, hesitantly. But then he shakes his head, and says, “I still don’t get—why do I have to  _move_  just because of all this? I’m fine—”  
  
“Your stomach doesn’t hurt?” Brooke asks, her eyes widening, and David’s abdomen seems to squeeze, sending a flare of hotness all around, and David’s heart sinks.  _Oh_ , is all he can think.  _That’s what—_  
  
Brooke smiles sadly, and scoots in, closer to him, “Maybe I didn’t explain properly. David, your soul is the only thing that supports you when hard things happen. It’s what keeps you grounded, and without it—“ She stops, struggling with the words. “Your soul is ripped. It only has half the support. A regular lifetime is about seventy years—do you know when people are usually selected for the bonding process, if they’re selected?”  
  
David says, quietly, “Twenty—twenty-five to thirty-five.”  
  
She smiles, “Right out of your science textbook, huh? Yes. It’s because a soul that’s ripped in half can only support you for half the time a full soul can. And if you don’t re-connect your half, and your partner’s half—David, it’ll be fatal. And the longer you take to bond—to re-connect the pieces—the long you take, the weaker your soul gets. If you wait too long—it won’t matter if you re-connect. The string will be too weak, and it’ll crumble. In your case—your soul took a big hit when you were twelve.”  
  
David whips his head up, his eyes wide. “When I—“  
  
“When you found out one of your vocal chords was paralyzed. And it’s not exactly the same, but your partner is older than you, and had also been through a lot, emotionally. You need to bond as soon as possible. I’m sorry that this was so sudden for you, David, I am. But it’s out of your hands now—it isn’t just your life that depends on this.”  
  
David lifts his legs up onto the seat, pulling his knees up to his chin. When Brooke tries to ask him something, he just shakes his head and puts his head down, trying not to cry. It’s all—it’s too much, it’s too much—he can’t— His chest shakes as he swallows the sob threatening to come out. Brooke leaves, giving him much-needed space, and eventually he wipes at his eyes, and looks up.  
  
The destination is listened on the large television in front of him, a small cartoon airplane flying along a bright blue line detailing the trip from Murray, Utah, to Los Angeles, California.  
  
The small tendrils of curiosity start to grow, despite how scared and frustrated he is. He’s confused, hundreds of thoughts swimming through his mind, about souls and connectivity. He’s trying to merge what Brooke’s told him together with what he learned in during the week-long connectivity unit in biology last year, and realizes for the first time that the government had hidden so much from the general public about this particular topic.  _Souls_ , he thinks,  _the secret is that it’s all about our souls_. And souls—well, he believes in them, but kind of in the same way that he believes in angels. They’re there—but he’s never supposed to encounter them and prove it.  
  
They’re definitely not supposedly wrapped around his body, too slight to be seen by the human eye, but undoubtedly  _there_ , supporting him, or whatever, his emotions. Meanly, he thinks that right now, it’s not doing a very good job with the whole supporting thing.  
  
It isn’t long before Brooke comes back in the tiny, empty first-class area. David tries to smile at her, and is pleased when it isn’t completely forced. Maybe crying had helped, a little. “We’re going to L.A.?” he asks, when she sits down again.  
  
Brooke smiles back, for real this time, and opens up the manila folder that she's had with her since they had first boarded the plane. "You're going to live in L.A., yes."  
  
“Really, live there?” David asks, jerking forward. He’d thought it was a stop, or something, not his new home.  
  
She starts laughing instead, and says, "Mmhmm, in a nice apartment with your partner. He's actually been waiting for you for a long time, so hopefully he cleaned up a little…”  
  
David kind of wants to ask why an apartment, and if Brooke knows his partner already, and if he's been in L.A. since the machine selected them both, or if he's only been there for a little while, and if he's a messy person, or nice and likes music and goes to Church on Sundays. But he gets stuck on the  _he_  part, thinking  _it's a boy_ , and ends up just staring at Brooke uncomprehendingly.  
  
"David?" she asks, after talking for a minute.  
  
"It's—my partner is a boy?"   
  
Brooke blinks, and then her mouth opens into a wide ' _o_ ' and she says, "Oh, yeah, David, he—it’s a boy. I guess—Most people are older than you, when they find out about this. They already know what sex they tend to be attracted to, but I suppose—you  _are_  only seventeen. It makes sense that you wouldn’t know just yet.”  
  
“But—but I’m  _not_ —“  
  
“Oh, David, it doesn’t matter. Whatever stigma rests on the view of homosexuality—“ and he cringes when she says the word, “—is based on what society knows. That’s changing, slowly, but you need to understand this now. Your soul does not care—no, listen to me—your soul couldn’t care less if your partner is a woman or not. All that matters is that you have to be together. You’re perfect for each other. Some experts think that thousands of souls rip in half, and that thousands of people die before they should because the second half of their soul never attached to an infant—because it couldn’t find someone suitable. The fact that you and your partner were both chosen by the same soul—you’re perfect for one another. David, I promise you, gender doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Okay,” David says, quietly, and Brooke keeps talking, but he’s not hearing any of it. He’s singing, in his head, and eventually closes his eyes, not even noticing when Brooke breaks off because he starts voicing the lyrics aloud, “ _Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try, no people below us, above it’s only sky, imagine all the people, living for today…_ ”  
  
When the pilot's voice comes over, loud and making David break off and snap open his eyes, he’s telling them to buckle in and put their trays up, they'll be landing soon.  
  
Brooke grins at him, as the plane dips, and says, "Ready to meet him?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Your partner!" Brooke says, still smiling, and then, probably in response to his stricken face, she says more seriously, "David, did you listen to what I—" but David really isn't listening anymore, and the plane is landing, and he’s kind of panicking.  
  
After the plane lands, David hurriedly grabs his bag and shuffles off the plane with Brooke at his back, and she stops him before they go through baggage check, looking at him with a hard face, "You weren't listening to half of what I said when we were on the plane, were you?"  
  
David flushes, and shakes his head. She sighs, but smiles indulgently and says, "You didn't miss that much, I just told you some of the main things—you’re going to learn everything else about him from him. But—“ she pauses, “Okay, listen to me now. His name is David Cook—"  
  
"David—"  
  
"You'll have to get used to it. Now  _listen_. His name is David Cook, he's twenty-five years—“  
  
"Twenty-five, what—!"  
  
"He wasn't happy about your age either, you know. Please listen."  
  
"Sorry," David mumbles, and finds himself not really listening anymore—even though he’s trying to pay attention, really, but his bags are coming through, and—as she talks and they look for his two bags. He’s busier thinking about being bonded to—well, an old guy, anyway. (Not that twenty-five is old, but they’re supposed to be, like, together, and that’s—a pretty big age difference, right?) He'd been thinking—he's not sure what he'd been thinking. He'd been trying not to think about it, actually, so he figures anything would have been surprising. But he’s kind of dreading his first call home now, and telling his Mom and Dad that he’s bonding with a man eight years his senior, and just imagining it, he flushes red again.  
  
He sees his green duffle, and jumps forward to grab it, only it's half under somebody else's purple bag that seems to weigh more than the airline would even allow, and he has to walk with the conveyer belt, tugging hard on the bag and not getting it to even budge. But then someone reaches in and grabs the black strap David is pulling on, and says, "Okay, pull," and David does. With a lurch, the purple bag lets loose of his and David almost falls backward with the thrust of it. The only reason that he doesn't is because of a warm hand on his back, steadying him, but—but sending a hot surge up from where its touching his back all the way through David’s body, and it’s like—David doesn’t even know what to compare it to. It's the same voice as before that says, "Hey, careful, you okay?" as David tries to turn around and almost stumbles while doing so.  
  
David’s ready to say  _thank you_  and shake the man off before walking back to Brooke, honest, only when he does manage to turn around and look up, he freezes. He can't say this man is gorgeous—because he's not, really, is actually kind of sweaty and dressed kind of weird with a vest over a t-shirt and lots of strings and necklaces hanging on his neck and bright bracelets around his wrists—but David can't rip his eyes away from the man’s face, and he—the man—doesn’t seem to be trying to look away either. David's not sure how long he stares like an idiot, but the man eventually cracks a grin and says, "Okay, let's get out of everyone else's way. That purple people-eater belongs to somebody, you know."  
  
"David!" Brooke yells from a few yards away, and the man who still has his hand on the square of David's back—and David’s heart is beating fast, too fast, and it’s kind of hurting, actually,  _so fast_ —is leading him towards her. David expects her to say something about him running off (even though he hadn't been, but getting his bag had definitely taken longer than it was supposed to), but instead, Brooke runs and hugs the taller man next to him, not even glancing at David.  
  
He jumps and takes a step away, and as Brooke says, "David, you're actually  _on time_ —" David's entire worldview kind of takes a hit.  
  
"I have to make a good impression," the man says— _David_  says, David thinks, and yeah, that's definitely going to be the weirdest thing ever. He's let go of Brooke now and is looking at David again, and with a conscience effort, David rips his own eyes away. He directs his gaze towards the ground, and his sneakers, where he can see Jazzy and Daniel's colored scrawls on the top, and knows Amber's is there too, even if he can't see it from this angle. They'd given him the new sneakers last night, so that he'd have to remember them all the time, and wouldn't be able to forget, no matter what.  
  
"David," Brooke says, gently, and David looks up suddenly, realizing he's been ignoring everything either of them has been saying, and the other David is rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.  
  
"Hi," he says, because it's the only thing he can think of to say to this man he doesn't know, but is supposed to fall in love with. It— _he’s supposed to fall in love with this man_ , David thinks, and feels a harsh spike in his low stomach. He wants to go home.  
  
"Hi," the man says, after a second, along with this little half-smile that makes David think  _he's nervous_.  
  
At least he isn't the only one then.  
  
  
  
The other David insists on carrying David's bags out to his car after Brooke makes them both stand next to each other all awkwardly to take a photo of their "first meeting". It was even more awkward than it should have been, because when the other David put his arm over David's shoulders, there was this—this jolt of  _electricity_ and he jumped and like, fell while trying to get away, and then had to stutter and apologize and explain that he just didn't like to be touched and they took the picture with at least half a foot in-between them. The car the older one drives is a silver jeep, and looks relatively new. He tries to help with shoving his bags into the trunk, but the other David says, "No, no, I can  _do_  it," even though he's out of breath and pushing the bags way too hard to actually get anywhere with them.   
  
It takes a few minutes, but he finally gets the back door shut all the way, and gives David this triumphant grin that's kind of maybe a little cute, and David says, "Thank you." He barely sees the grin change into a smile. Something pulls in his stomach when David realizes that the man—David—his partner—had been trying to impress David by getting his bag and duffle in the car all on his own. It makes David laugh the entire time that he's getting into the front seat and buckling up.  
  
  
  
Brooke abandoned him after the photo stunt earlier, and the first few minutes that David is alone in a car with his new  _partner_  is maybe the most uncomfortable he’s ever been.  _Ever_. Traffic is awful, and it takes ten minutes just to get out of the airport and onto the highway, which might be even worse. David stares dejectedly out the window, wondering how far away the man sitting next to him lives. (On one hand, he hopes really far so that he’ll never have to deal with this traffic again, and on the other, he hopes really close, so that the awful car ride can just end already.)  
  
“So,” comes the other David’s voice, and it makes David look up at him guiltily. “I skipped breakfast this morning. What do you think about stopping somewhere?”  
  
David really wants to say no—wants to take his bags and find his new room and shut the door and just hide in it forever—but his stomach picks that moment to growl all embarrassingly. “Um, yes?” he adds, and the other David just laughs, and kind of bends a little weirdly since he’s like, sitting down, and driving, and David yells, “Watch the road!” when the car swerves a little.  
  
They miss the intended exit, and David cringes when the other one lets out a string of curses directed at the crowded lane of cars that are blocking it. They end up taking the one after that, and after ten minutes of trying to figure out how to turn around and get back to wherever Cook is trying to get to, David hazards to actually talk, saying, “We could—we could just find somewhere here—like, um, that place?” and he points through his window at this little green and brown building that says,  _Jo’s Dining_  with a little fork and spoon hanging next to it.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” his companion says, voice kind of—odd, like he’s surprised and pleased all at once, and David feels the back of his neck get all warm again as they pull into the parking lot. He practically flings himself from the car and walks into the restaurant quickly, remembering the ghost sensation of a hand on his back, guiding him, even though the older David hasn’t touched him at all since David got all jumpy while they were taking that picture.  
  
Their waitress—a blond girl who looks maybe David’s age and is named  _Anna_ —asks, “Can I get anything else for you?” smiling, after they order (eggs and sausage for David, chicken-fried steak for the other one) and before David can say, “Uh, no, thanks?” there’s a cough from the other side of the table, and the other David says, “We’re good, thanks. Right, Arch?”  
  
Anna leaves, and David blinks up at the man across from him. “Arch?”  
  
“I can’t really call you David,” he says, shrugging.   
  
“Oh,” David says, “So I’ll call you—um—“  
  
“Cook,” Cook says, looking at David kind of disbelievingly. “You didn’t remember my name?”  
  
David looks to the side, and mumbles, “I knew it was short.”  
  
“Okay,” Cook says, and they don’t talk again until Anna comes back with their plates, and she doesn’t talk to David again either. David pokes at his egg, watching the yellow yolk slowly dribble out and onto his toast, and his stomach squirms.  
  
“So—“ Cook says, after they’ve been eating for a few minutes, and David just pushing an egg around his plate sadly, and obviously, he realizes belatedly. “This is kind of weird, huh?”  
  
David nods, staring at his food.   
  
“What, uh,” Cook starts, but doesn’t finish whatever he was going to ask, and David can’t answer only half of a question.   
  
“It’s nerve-wracking when they show up,” Cook says, eventually. “I thought they were crazy, at first. And then when they said my partner was sixteen— My mom was hysterical.”  
  
David says, “I’m seventeen,” and thinks again about what his own mother is going to think when he tells her about Cook.  
  
“Yeah, but you weren’t when we found out,” Cook says, as if he’s pointing out some fact.  
  
“I found out yesterday,” David says, looking up at Cook this time, eyes wide.  
  
“What?” Cook asks, blankly.  
  
“Oh, um—Brooke came yesterday? And told us. Me and my family, I mean. And then I guess I wasn’t really paying attention, because I didn’t find out your name or—how old you are—until we were already here—um, in L.A. Back, um, at the airport, uh, Da—Cook?”   
  
Cook had pushed his plate away, and had dropped his head down onto the table in his arms. David wants to tell him to sit back up, because the table probably isn’t, like, clean enough to do that. “Cook, are you okay?”  
  
“I was,” Cook mumbles from inside his arms, “under the false impression that you knew.”  
  
“Knew what?” David asks, finally pushing his plate away too.  
  
Cook props his head up with his arms, and looks at David pointedly. “About us, me, the fact that I’m eight years older than you and apparently some sort of creep.  _I_  was notified about all this shit six months ago.”  
  
David cringes at the curse, and then says, “No, I found out yesterday. Or, this morning, really. Oh, but, um—you’re not a creep. I mean, I don’t think you—it’s, um, out of our hands?”  
  
David has no idea what about what he said was funny, and suspects that Cook must just be weird, because Cook snorts and lets his head fall back onto the table.  
  
Cook asks for the check a few minutes later, and David jumps, because he totally hasn’t thought about it at all, but—“I don’t have any money.”  
  
Cook glances at him as he’s pulling his wallet out of his jeans, and he says, “Guess you’ll have to earn your keep then.”  
  
“How do I—“ David starts to ask, except Cook is grimacing and so he stops and says, “Oh my Gosh, what’s wrong?” thinking Cook doesn’t want him anymore, or something, because he’s so lame, all broke and stuff. (And he’s not entirely sure why the thought hurts quite as much as it does, but it’s like something is twisting in the pit of his stomach, all tight and red hot.)  
  
“Sorry,” Cook says, getting up, “That was really inappropriate. Come on, let’s go.”  
  
David fumbles his way out of the booth, and while standing next to Cook while the man is paying for their meals at the front counter, has to clench his fist tight enough for his fingertips to go white to keep from reaching out and touching Cook’s shoulder, as if he’s, like, looking for reassurance that  _he wants me, he does, he has to_. David is relatively sure that they had only met an hour ago, and only because they’re being forced to, and so these feelings are coming out of pretty much nowhere and they’re  _awful_.  
  
David slides into the front passenger seat of the car uneasily, and flinches when Cook pulls his own door shut with a slam. David tries to retreat as small as he can into his seat, but it only lasts for a few minutes, because Cook keeps glancing at him and eventually says, “Are you alright?”  
  
He sounds so worried that David nods too fast and says, “Yes!” too quickly. Cook looks unconvinced anyway, and David stutters, “I’m sorry. I’m not really—um, good at this.”  
  
Cook sighs, “You’re not supposed to be. You’re in high school, right?”  
  
David nods, and Cook nods back, says, “I’d already graduated  _college_  when they told me about this, and I’ve had six months to get used to the idea. You—they just threw it at you.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’re—“  _cool_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. “Just, um, we don’t seem like a good match?”  
  
Cook straightens his back, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens up, and he says, gruffly, “Right now, sure, we just met, but you’ll get—“  
  
David just says, “Yeah,” again, all sadly and staring at his sneakers again, and doesn’t want to listen to Cook’s reassurances of getting older, or whatever he was going to say, because it just hurts to think he’s not good enough  _right now_.

 

 

He ends up falling asleep against the window, at some point during the uneasy silence that followed their discussion, and he doesn’t wake up until Cook nudges him with his arm, and it sends this hot, achy spark all the way through David’s body, and he wakes up with a jerk and says, “ _Cook_ ,” as if he’s asking for him, or something, and Cook looks at him with this really weird expression on his face, and David flushes red while trying to undo his seat belt as quickly as possible, saying, “Um, is this—are we—“  
  
“Yeah,” Cook says, after a minute, and reaches over, pushing the button on the belt thingy to let David out, and David  _can’t even think_ , Gosh, it’s awful and embarrassing. He pushes the car door open and jumps out before shutting it again, breathing deeply as he looks around.   
  
They’re in a parking garage.   
  
Cook is pulling open the trunk, and David walks over slowly to help with his bags, but Cook is just all, “Just take your backpack, Arch,” and eventually gives David the keys to the apartment too, so he can run ahead and open the door. “Fourth floor, room 47, okay?”  
  
David fidgets in the elevator, and when the doors open, he’s kind of surprised, because it’s like, they’re already in the apartment building, are  _above_  where all the cars park, and he’s from Murray, where people don’t live on top of cars generally. Every door is green and has little golden numbers and some of them have things hanging, like little  _Welcome Home_  signs. He walks down the hall, looking for 47, and finds it at the same moment that the door across the hall opens and a woman walks out of it, yelling at somebody still inside. She stops and blinks when she sees him, and he jumps and turns to Cook’s door, rushing to put the key into the lock.  
  
“Oh, are you—“ she says, and Cook’s door opens. David turns around, and she says, “Archie! Right?”  
  
“What?” David says, really wanting to disappear inside his apartment— _Cook’s apartment_ — already.  
  
“Dave’s been excited; it’s all we ever really hear from him anymore. Is he coming up?” she asks.  
  
Before David can acknowledge that at all, Cook yells from the end of the hallway, “Carly, stop bugging him!” and starts walking down from the elevator, David’s bags in-hand (and it makes him feel even worse seeing him carrying his stuff like that, but he doesn’t even try to take them, already knowing what the response will be).   
  
“I’m doing no such thing,” Carly says, and then pats Cook on the head with a, “You make a good butler, by the way,” as she laughs and walks back the way David and Cook had just come from. She yells, “Oh, Archie, nice to meet you!” and David waves as Cook grumbles under his breath and pushes his way through the apartment door.  
  
It’s kind of clean, is David’s first thought, walking in. There’s a little entrance before the room splits off to the kitchen on the right, and a living room straightforward, and there’s a hall leading out from the living room where David guesses the bedrooms and bathroom are. Cook heads down that direction, and David follows, taking in the couple of glasses lying around, and the big TV and stereo in the corner of the living room, in front of the dark blue couch and plastic-y black sitting table thing, with lots of magazines messily piled on it. There are some photos above the couch, and two even have frames, and there’s a poster next to the TV, but other than that the walls are bare white. David wonders if Cook actually cleaned for him, or if this is normal. (He’s hoping this is normal, because otherwise…)  
  
“Archie,” Cook says, and David is about to ask how he went from David to Arch to  _Archie_ , but Cook is putting his bags down in a big room, and David stops abruptly walking in. It’s a nice room, with a big closet and a dresser and end tables on either side of the bed, but it’s fairly obvious that it’s not his room. There are CD’s lying out on the dresser, and dirty clothes kicked into a corner, and the blankets are rumpled, although pulled up like Cook had at least attempted to make it look made and the bed itself is—obviously for two people.   
  
David must look confused, because Cook’s eyes widen and he looks from the bed to David and then puts a hand behind his neck, rubbing it sheepishly, “Don’t worry. I’ll, uh, take the couch. But here’s the room!” He starts moving around, grabbing clothes off the floor and a few other things, like a notebook full of papers, saying, “Sorry, I need to do laundry, I know.”  
  
David gets it really fast. They’re  _partners_. They’re supposed to sleep together. Like, not even just sleep together, but do other things too, and oh, thinking about that makes the back of his ears burn red. But that means—this isn’t his room, or Cook’s room. It’s  _their_  room.   
  
“Oh my Gosh, no!” David says, suddenly, and Cook looks at him from where he’s trying to balance like twelve different pairs of pants at once. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room! I mean, our room. But really your room, because you’ve been here for a long time already!”  
  
Cook shrugs—or David thinks he does, it’s kind of hard to tell, he’s like, hidden by all the clothes he’s holding—as he walks past David and out into the hall. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and then farther off, “I’m running down to the laundry room, ‘kay?” and he’s gone.  
  
David looks around the room, and sees a few socks that Cook had missed. He finds himself picking them up, and a black t-shirt that was half hiding under the bed, and dropping them all right out in the hallway. Cleaning is kind of soothing, David thinks. It’s like taking all the stuff that’s crazy and doesn’t make sense, and putting it into place, organizing it so that suddenly it does. He’s practically on autopilot, and he puts all of Cook’s CD’s and magazines into piles on an end table, and pulls back the sheets on the bed so that he can make it properly, even though he thinks they should probably be washed (but they smell like Cook, and David doesn’t even think about pulling them off the mattress). By the time Cook gets back, the room is picked up, and the window is open, letting in fresh air.   
  
David hasn’t touched his bags though.  
  
“Whoa,” Cook says, halting at the door, his eyes going wide. “You, uh—“  
  
“I can sleep on the couch,” David says, turning away from the window. “This is your room, so it’s fairer.”  
  
Cook grins. “It’s your room for now. Come on, I want you to meet someone,” and he drags David to the apartment that Carly had come out of earlier.  
  
“Mike, you asshole, get out here!” Cook yells through the door, knocking loudly. David, alarmed, grabs Cook’s arm to try and drag him back away from the door before whoever is inside decides to come out and murder him. Painfully. Instead of pulling him away though, that little shock to come back, spreading from his fingertips all the way up his arm and down into his stomach. Cook is looking at him with his mouth parted and his eyes way darker than before, and David can’t make himself look away, wondering if Cook felt the spark too.  
  
That’s when Mike opens the door and says, “Dave, you dick, I’m  _sleeping_ , what do you want?”  
  
David jumps back and rips his hand away from Cook’s arm, guiltily looking up into this new guy’s face, as if he’d been caught red-handed. Cook doesn’t react the same way at all, grinning instead as he says, “Michael Johns, meet Archie. Arch; meet the asshole who lives across from us. Never believe anything he tells you.”  
  
David flinches at the cursing again. He should tell Cook to stop, but then remembers the fact that he’s trying  _not_  to act like a child. “Hello,” he says instead, looking up at Michael, whose looking kind of startled back at him.  
  
“Ah, the famous Archie. I can’t believe I forgot you arrived today. Dave hasn’t shut up about it for weeks. Carly’ll be angry she missed it.”  
  
“I have not been that bad. I mentioned it  _once_ ,” Cook says, kicking Michael.  
  
Michael raises an eyebrow, and says, “Yeah, alright, if that’s what you’re selling.”  
  
“ _Anyway_ ,” Cook says, “Mike’s Carly’s partner. You remember her from earlier?”  
  
David nods, and looks up all wide eyes at Michael again. “You are?”  
  
Michael shrugs, but he’s smiling. “A year and counting.”   
  
They end up eating lunch in Michael’s apartment, just turkey sandwiches and beer (or water for David, when he says, “Oh my Gosh, I can’t drink!” and Michael laughs at Cook, who laughs and grimaces all at the same time). David sits on the sofa, and even though he was kind of expecting Cook to sit next to him, because there was totally room, he sat on the floor instead.   
  
“Ready for this, kid?” Michael asks through his own sandwich.  
  
“What?” David says, confused.  
  
“This,” Michael says, giving a wave to gesture at everything. “Your new life. Life with him,” he adds, looking pointedly at Cook.  
  
Cook chimes in, “Would you leave it? It’s not like we chose to be here. Give him time to adjust, you ass.”  
  
David doesn’t know why that hurts either, but it does and he tries to concentrate on eating his sandwich while Cook and Mike start talking about other random things. He can’t help but think of his Mom, and how she probably made enchiladas, because everyone is probably still sad that he’s gone, and she always makes enchiladas when David fails a test at school, or Daniel flips his skateboard wrong, or Jazzy scrapes her knees while riding her bike. It seems like this is a situation she would make enchiladas for.  
  
Eventually, after David finds out that Michael and Carly were actually married before they became partners—married to other people, that is, which is kind of sad, but apparently Michael would never go back after knowing Carly, so maybe it’s not sad, maybe it’s a good thing—and that he’s actually from Australia, and Carly is from Ireland, Cook asks David if he wants to go back to their apartment. (He says he doesn’t want to hear the story again, and he’s saving David by not letting him hear it at all.) David agrees quickly, all too ready to go back to their apartment and maybe fall asleep or something, rather than have to pretend he’s okay and happy, or whatever.  
  
It’s quieter in their apartment, neither of them knowing what to say, or how to say it. Cook says again though, that David is to have the bedroom, no excuses, and David finds himself in the room with the door closed, staring at his bags as if they’ll break out into song and start unpacking themselves, like out of a Disney movie.   
  
“So much for fairy tales,” David murmurs, and sits down next to his bag.  
  
  
  
The tight pain in his chest is worse than it’s ever been before, and it keeps  _thumpthumpthump_ ing at him, and he thinks that if he were to go out and maybe talk to Cook, it would maybe go away. But he can’t bear the thought of going out and Cook talking to him, like, as if he’s homesick, like a child, or something, because,  _Gosh_ , that’d be too awful to even imagine, he’s not a child and he doesn’t want Cook thinking he is. He turns his face into the pillow, and holds back a sob, tightening his fingers into the thin material.   
  
He waits another ten minutes before throwing the blanket off him over to the other side of the bed, and sliding off the mattress carefully. He’s wearing the cotton blue pajamas his abuelita had bought for him last year, even though they’re a little long. The bottoms of the pants brush against the floor behind his heels as he walks out of the room, trying to be quiet so that he doesn’t wake up Cook while he goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water. But when David makes his way into the living room, Cook is sitting up on the couch and the TV is on, volume low. David thinks it’s a game show, and takes a second to wonder if Cook likes shows like that, or if he’s just bored, not used to sleeping, or maybe—having the same problem as David. He must make some noise, because Cook is turning around, saying, “Hey, Arch. You okay?”  
  
His voice is low, like the television, but rough and scratchy like it’s hard for him to speak at all. It hurts David to hear it, makes heat pool in his belly and his throat catch on whatever excuse he was going to give before he can even think to say it, and before he even knows it, he’s saying, “ _Cook_ ,” his voice breaking on the name and he almost wants to sob with the sound of it.  
  
Cook is at his side in seconds, and David closes his eyes tight, fisting his hands together, and then opens them again and says, “Do you—I mean—we could share—the bed, we could share, couldn’t we?”  
  
Cook stares at him for a second, before he tosses his head back and laughs throatily. David takes a step back, thinking,  _Oh, no, I shouldn’t have_ — before Cook says, “ _God_ , yes, Arch, that sounds good,” all out of breath and just  _happy_ , smiling with really bright eyes down at David. And David can’t help it, he opens his arms and practically falls into Cook, saying, “ _Oh_ ,” when his chest hits Cook’s, and even through the material it’s like he can feel every single one of Cook’s heartbeats right next to his, short sparks of electricity just flooding him, this incredible burst of intense feeling. Cook wraps his arms around David’s back and pulls him in even tighter and whispers against David’s ear, “God, Arch,” and they fumble back into the bedroom haphazardly, not wanting to let go of each other at all.   
  
The backs of David’s thighs hit the edge of the bed as Cook pushes him onto it, and he doesn’t even care, too wrapped up in Cook and how warm he is, and how good his laugh sounds against David’s neck, like Cook just belongs there, holding on to him, perfect. David doesn’t know how it’s even possible to want someone  _so much_  that it aches like this, even when he’s closer to them than he’s been to anyone ever in his life.  
  
Cook pulls the blanket up over David’s waist; pulls David in tight so that he’s breathing right up against Cook’s chest, arms still gripping him tight like if he loosens his grip at all he might disappear altogether. David doesn’t know how it works, this thing that they have, whether it’s because this is some sort of soul mate fairytale thing like the girls at school always say it is, or if it’s scientific like that theory his teacher thought it was, or if it’s just  _them_ , but the painful  _thumpthumpthump_  in his chest is still there, and instead of hurting, it feels so good that he can’t even think except to clutch at Cook, and never let go, ever.   
  
It only takes a few minutes for David’s breathing to even out, and he falls asleep against Cook, warm arms surrounding him underneath the big comforter, making him forget that this isn’t really where he’s supposed to be—making him think that maybe it is.  
  
  
  
David wakes up easily, light filtering in through the tiny crack in the curtains and hitting him in the face. He’s incredibly warm, and there’s this feeling that seems to be everywhere at once, covering him in a weird haze, but it’s warm and soft and amazing. When he opens his eyes, slowly, he remembers why he’s so warm. He’s still pressed up against Cook, although he’s migrated up, a little, his face resting in the crook of Cook’s neck, making the small baby hairs on his skin shiver with every breath David gives.  
  
Something tells him he should move; get up, but he doesn’t want to at all. As long as he stays here, wrapped up in Cook’s arms, he’s safe and warm and nothing can go wrong. As soon as he moves, nothing will be alright anymore. Cook will get up—Cook will  _leave_. Even just the thought sends waves of nausea down into David’s stomach and he squeezes his eyes shut, tightening his arm around Cook’s waist, taking refuge in the small spark he gets by increasing the pressure there.   
  
Cook moves though, rolls his shoulders back and makes a little sound at the back of his throat, before blinking open his eyes, still foggy with sleep. David hides his face in Cook’s neck again, hoping that Cook will just—play pretend and go back to sleep. But instead Cook lifts an arm, having to pull it up from underneath David’s, and runs his fingers through David’s hair. “Hey, you awake?”  
  
David groans against Cook’s skin, and shakes his head no. Cook laughs, makes a slightly strangled sound and pushes up so that he’s sitting in bed instead of lying down. The sudden rip from contact, even if not all of it, sends a shallow thrust at David’s stomach, and he flings himself forward so that he’s holding on to Cook again, even while sitting. “It hurts,” he says, quickly, when Cook grabs him back and pulls him in to his chest.   
  
Cook takes a long breath and says, “I know, believe me, I’ve been dealing with it for a while.”  
  
David pulls back roughly, ignores the tight pain. But he’s staring up at Cook now, and asks, incredulous, “For how long?”  
  
Cook looks sheepish again, and pulls one leg up under the comforter while brushing a thumb against his chin, as if to imitate thinking, and says, “When they first told me about you. I don’t know, Arch, it’s like as soon as I knew you were out there, I started—“ He breaks off, grinning a little, but David thinks he’s just embarrassed, and has the worst impulse to lean in and press his mouth against Cook’s; to brush his bottom lip against the stubble on his cheek and lick at the corners of Cook’s lips, and before he even realizes it, he’s centimeters away from Cook, who is looking at him with wide eyes, but is leaning forward now too, and before David can scare himself away by thinking  _too much_ , he closes the distance and kisses him.  
  
It’s—something happens, something  _crazy_. Cook’s lips are kind of soft and his stubble is actually kind of scratchy against David’s skin, and it doesn’t go as perfectly as David was thinking it would, because Cook pushes him backwards and David’s back hits the bed before Cook is pressing against him  _everywhere_. David accidentally bites Cook’s lip hard enough that it starts to bleed. Cook doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t stop mouthing at David’s until David has to gasp for air. Cook just moves so that he’s licking at David’s jaw line instead, sending little thrills down to pool in his belly and—and other places—and—  
  
Cook’s hand’s are warm and his fingers are rough but so, so good where they’re roaming up the inside of David’s blue shirt, caressing and stroking even while one of his legs is pushing its way up in-between both of David’s and all the sudden it’s  _too much_ , and even though David wants to keep going so much that he thinks he might curl up and just cry if they stop, he says, “Cook, Cook,” and pushes at him until Cook groans and stills and pulls back, saying breathlessly, “Archie?”  
  
David closes his eyes, because he can’t look at Cook like that, hot and tussled and pupils dilated so that his eyes are dark and his mouth wet, almost too red. He fumbles until he’s standing up next to the bed, pulling his shirt down from where Cook had pushed it up, and he says, “I—I can’t—” He tries not to see the emotions that cross Cook’s face, and says, “Um—do you—I’ll make breakfast,” and runs out of the room.  
  
David’s plan of escape doesn’t actually work that well, because Cook’s refrigerator has two things in it: beer (which David doesn’t drink) and pizza (the left-over’s from last night). There’s also an old apple he thinks needs to be thrown away and half a jug of milk that expired a week ago. David hears footsteps behind him, and he turns, closing the refrigerator door. “You’re really bad at, like, cleaning and groceries and stuff, aren’t you?”  
  
“There’s milk and cereal?” Cook says, but even he doesn’t look too sure about it.  
  
“Can we grocery shopping?” David asks.  
  
Cook shrugs. “I guess, if you’re up to it.”  
  
“I am,” David says. Then hesitatingly, “Um, can I use the shower?”  
  
Cook runs a hand through his hair and says, “Yeah, Arch, do whatever.”  
  
  
  
Grocery shopping, David thinks, has never been his responsibility before. He knows though, without a doubt, that he’s going to be the one doing it from now on. It’s kind of weird, but he doesn’t mind, really. He’s always liked cleaning, and groceries go hand-in-hand with it. It’s what his Mom would always do, while his Dad went to work. Sometimes, if she had to do it on a weekend, David and his siblings would go with her, and she’d shout at them every time they tried sneaking toys and candy into the cart without her noticing. (She always noticed though.)  
  
David pulls on a pair of jeans quickly, and tugs a t-shirt on too, and combs his fingers through his hair so it’s not quite so messy, even though it’s still wet from his shower a few minutes ago. Cook is in now, and he hasn’t said anything about this morning at all. David hopes they don’t talk about it for a long time, because he’s not even really sure what to say.   
  
He’d never kissed someone before that.  
  
David shakes his head and goes into the living room when he hears the water stop. He puts on his shoes slowly, and ties his laces even slower, so that by the time Cook comes out of the bedroom, dressed in jeans and t-shirt that says, “SUPPORT ROCK N’ ROLL,” he’s still on the second shoe.   
  
Cook grabs his shoes and puts them on much faster, while saying, “Okay, so we’ll have to do the grocery shopping later. I have to go to work, and you probably shouldn’t go around L.A. on your own just yet.”  
  
“Oh,” David says, staring at his shoes, both of them tied now. “That’s okay.”  
  
As Cook stands up, he says, “Yeah? There are—“  
  
“What do you do?” Archie interrupts. He wants to know—is it accounting? It seems… wrong, somehow, for Cook to be in a desk job. But bonded pairs—they’re always good at the same things.  
  
Cook grins for real this time, and says, “I used to be a bartender. But now, I’m about three months away from putting out my first single.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” David says, all surprise is his face and voice. “You’re—you can sing?”  
  
Cook shrugs, but he’s still grinning. His face falters after a second, and he says, “Do you—You could come. They always let you in if you’re bonded, so—“  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” David says, and he grabs Cook’s arm, letting in the warmth that spreads through him at the contact. “I want to.”  
  
  
  
David is told to stay in the adjacent room to where Cook is. He can see him through a large glass window though, along with all of the technical people who are also in the room, controlling all of the little buttons and knobs. Cook is standing in front of a long, black and hanging microphone, with huge headphones placed over his ears, while David is sitting on a funky red couch definitely made for its aesthetic qualities, and not its comfort ones.  
  
David’s pie (weird, and totally sugary, and a horrible substitute for a real breakfast, but Cook picked four of them up from a gas station on the way to the studio, and David really needs to talk to him about, um, eating healthier) is set aside half-eaten, because he’s too excited to hear Cook to bother with his stomach.  
  
When Cook finally starts, David can barely breathe.   
  
 _Here in this crowd I'm feeling all alone, turn me around and point me back to home, I'm getting lost more every day, and I can't tear myself away, from the stars in my eyes with no light. Here are my terms, have some faith in me, and I'll let you be who you need to be._  
  
There’s something incredible about it—about the way the words seem to just slam into David and carve their way into his heart, and oh, God, it hurts, but David can’t take his eyes away from Cook as he sings,  _Life on the moon, could it be any stranger?_  It’s—his voice is high and deep and rough and strong, and David doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so remarkable in his life, and he can’t—he can’t  _wait_.  
  
When the song finishes, and the man at the control panel says, “That was good, David, wow,” David jumps forward and Cook looks at him through the glass, and grins and takes off his headphones. He walks out, probably just for a minute—to talk to the tech people, maybe, even, while they do whatever it is that they do with the recording that he had just done, but the minute that the recording door opens, and Cook walks through, David can’t help it at all, he lifts himself up as tall as he can and pushes his mouth against Cook’s.  
  
He’s not sure what happens after Cook surges back, pushing him against a wall and a hand already making its way up his stomach, the other resting on his shoulder, but sliding up into his hair, and  _oh_. He doesn’t know what happened exactly, except that all of the people who were there moments before are gone when Cook pushes him down onto the red couch, and David doesn’t even care, because—Cook is touching him, and that’s all that matters.  
  
  
  
Okay, so, David realizes that he really hadn’t been thinking straight when he finds himself crammed underneath Cook, uncomfortably squished into red cushions, sweaty and um, his shirt on the floor and his jeans pushed down— Oh, Gosh, they’re at Cook’s—it’s a  _recording studio_ , this is  _awful_! He pushes at Cook who says, “Huh?” and falls off the sofa abruptly.  
  
“We—“ David says, all red and awkward, and pulls up his jeans and tries to ignore the fact that Cook is just laughing until Cook finally says, “This was not even my fault, Archuleta,” and the horrible thing is he’s  _right_. Oh,  _Gosh_.  
  
They end up going grocery shopping after that—because David can’t imagine staying in the studio any longer, even after someone says, “Don’t worry, kid, we work with bonded pairs all the time, so we’re used to the impromptu shagging sessions.” Or maybe because they said it. David isn’t sure.  
  
But they argue over what to buy (David wants lettuce, Cook wants Cheetos; David wants the cheaper kind of mayo, Cook says it’s his money and he’ll buy whatever mayo he wants) but in the end they agree on lasagna for dinner. Cooking it isn’t as easy though, because when they get back home, David wants to put it in (it takes like four hours to cook!), Cook pushes Archie against the counter and heaves him up, mouth already latched on to David’s neck, tugging his t-shirt up and he gets in-between—  
  
They kind of forget about the lasagna.  
  
  
On Monday morning, Cook rolls over and plants a sloppy, wet kiss on David’s chin to wake him up. David laughs when his stubble tickles him, and then hits him in the chest, mumbling, “Stop it, I’m trying to sleep, Cook!”  
  
“No, up, up, come on,” Cook says, whispering it in David’s ear, and he  _knows_  by now that that’s a sure way to get David up—but they end up spending two more hours in bed because of it. Or, they did the day before. But this time, fifteen minutes later, when David is straddling Cook’s hips, and they’re chest-to-chest, Cook’s mouth licking its way down his neck and onto his shoulder, David’s head tossed back so that the only thing in view is the ceiling—if his eyes were open, anyway—Cook abruptly pulls back and says, loudly, “ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
David is startled enough that he jumps and Cook is pushing him off and getting up from the bed, completely naked, and David grabs at the sheets to cover himself up, blushing all the sudden, now that they’re not—“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking at Cook even though he’s turned away from David now.  
  
“You—are so fucking distracting. Seriously, you have to get up—we have a meeting with Abdul in like ten minutes.”  
  
“Abdul?”  
  
Cook chances a glance at him from where he’s grabbing a pair of jeans out of a drawer and pulling them on—and for some reason, the fact that he skipped his briefs sends a hot thrill straight to David’s—  
  
“She’s the woman in charge of deciding what you’re doing from now on.”  
  
David slowly gets up and walks to the dresser to get out his own clothes, sheet still wrapped around his waist. “What do you mean?”  
  
Cook says, “Not sure. Usually, she’s got the say on you occupation-wise. She’s the one who hooked me up with the studio—for you, she’s probably in charge of where you’ll be finishing out high school. Oh, fuck, that sounds bad when we were just—we’re so going to be late, shit.”  
  
David throws on a t-shirt and grabs his tennis shoes while dragging Cook out of the apartment, and they run to the elevator, David yelling, “Why didn’t you tell me this last night!? I could have been up ages ago, Gosh!”  
  
“I did! You were kind of pre-occupied at the time, though…” Cook says, grinning, and David smacks him before leaning against the elevator wall to put his shoes on.   
  
David watches as Cook pushes the  _lobby_  button, and then says, “Uh, Cook, you hit the wrong floor—“  
  
“What? No, you have to go through the lobby to get to her office.”  
  
“It’s in the building?”  
  
“Hm? Yeah. What, you thought it was coincidence that Johns and Carly live right across from us?”  
  
David flushes, and turns away, kicking his heel down so that the shoe feels more comfortable.   
  
When they get into the lobby, the secretary lady gestures at a door (because she’s on the phone) and Cook takes David’s hand again, leading him through it. There’s a woman, kind of small and tanned, sitting at a big desk. She looks up and smiles. “David!”  
  
Cook says, “Hey,” at the same time that David says, “H-hello.”  
  
Her smile gets bigger and she looks down at the paperwork on her desk, saying, “Go ahead and sit down, we have some things to discuss.”  
  
There are two wooden less-than-comfortable chairs in front of her, and David sits in one at the same time as Cook. It’s quiet for the next three minutes, Mrs. Abdul looking at the documents, before she finally says, “Okay, David—Archuleta—we have a few options. You do have to finish your schooling, but if you’re interested in following a music career, we have tutoring available that will work just as well as you attending an actual school. Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, I haven’t actually heard you sing yet.”  
  
She says that, but she’s smiling really big, and Cook says, “Do you want him to? Arch, I haven’t even heard you yet. You should—“  
  
“Oh my Gosh, are you serious?” David interrupts, confused. Are they—they’re asking if he wants to, like, have a career? In singing? In  _singing_? “You want me to sing?”  
  
Mrs. Abdul’s eyes are kind of crossing, and he brow is furrowed. “Your partner is very good at music—typically, partners have the same talents. So it’s a given that you can sing, but if you’re not interested—“  
  
“No, no, I am!” David says, suddenly, moving forward in the chair.  
  
“Alright then, sing for us. If you’re good enough, we’ll move forward with the studio execs and getting you a tutor as soon as possible. What are you going to sing?”  
  
It’s moving so  _fast_ , David thinks, but the woman is looking at him expectantly, and Cook is sitting up in the chair, as if excited, and David—he takes a deep breath. “Um, I—“ He can’t think of anything, suddenly, to sing. The only thing coming to mind are those old Disney’s that Amber watches all the time, and he—  
  
“Sing Imagine for me,” Cook says, reaching for his hand. “Brooke said you sang it on the plane. Sing it for me.”  
  
David squeezes Cook’s hand tightly, the same tendrils of fire swiveling up his arm and down into his stomach. “Alright,” he says, and closes his eyes, and sings, and thinks of his family back in Utah, of his vocal chords and if they’ll be okay singing—of what a future might be like with singing as a career, but mostly, mostly, he’s thinking about the man sitting next to him, listening to every word.


End file.
